


I Call and You’ll Be There

by stardust_and_sunlight



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: But I Love Them, Canon-typical discussions of violence, M/M, Non-explicit BDSM, and they love each other, i've never written in this fandom and i never expected this lol, solo takes care of illya, this literally came to me in a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23562232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_and_sunlight/pseuds/stardust_and_sunlight
Summary: Illya must look even worse than he felt, because concern was written all over Solo’s face.“Please,” Illya said roughly, begged, voice almost unrecognisable even to himself, and understanding and comprehension dawned in Solo’s face.“Of course,” Solo said quietly, and then he was moving.[a mission affects Illya in an unexpected way. Napoleon is there to help]
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	I Call and You’ll Be There

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up at 4am today with this fully formed in my brain, I scribbled some nonsense down on paper in pitch darkness while half asleep, and this is what I made of it.
> 
> The title is an incorrect quote from Lorde's The Louvre because I wrote it down then listened to the song and realised it was wrong, but I still like it so I'm using it.
> 
> In my mind, the three of them work for Waverly but on the condition that Gaby's allowed to veto missions. Illya and Napoleon love each other and Illya lets Solo look after him and Gaby hooks up with girls wherever they go. No follow up questions thanks.
> 
> I've never really written anything like this lol pls leave me feedback!

Illya was already shaking imperceptibly when he got back to the hotel room. The job should have been simple, in and out, killing a despicable man and knocking out his guards. Illya had read his file, and he knew that no-one would miss him except his equally twisted partners, and his business would crumble without him, exactly as Waverly wanted.

Illya always did these kinds of jobs, because for so long, when Solo hadn’t been able to choose missions, or veto things, he had carried out so many assassinations, for the Americans with their own self-serving objectives, and while he would never say anything, he hated them, always came back quiet and drawn and needing a drink.

Illya didn’t enjoy these types of missions either, but he could handle them, could switch off the part of his brain that cared- he’d had to do that all the time in the KGB. And Waverly at least explained _why_ they were doing the missions they were doing, and Gaby was always allowed to read through the facts and veto missions, which was certainly more than his handlers had ever done before. He was treated as a _person_ by his team now, and they avoided collateral damage when they could, and so he could do this with very few qualms. He’d killed before, nicer men than this, and it didn’t trouble him too much, and so he was more than willing to take them away from Solo, to avoid that twisted look on his face.

But there had been a woman there tonight, and a child, and the woman had ran at him with a tiny knife she’d pulled from nowhere, and Illya had disarmed her easily but she’d fallen, awkwardly, and lain still.

The child was three at most, a toddler really, and she hadn’t cried. She’d just blinked up at him, eyes bright blue and trusting and her black hair a curly mess. He’d left her there.

And once upon a time, Illya wouldn’t have cared, or would have pretended not to care, but he wasn’t as good at hiding these things as he once had been- and he blamed Solo and Gaby for that, although it wasn’t a bad thing.

He shed his weapons and his coat as soon as he entered the hotel room, none of his usual care and fastidiousness as he dropped his coat on the ground and yanked roughly at the collar of his shirt, and then Solo was there. Illya must look even worse than he felt, because concern was written all over Solo’s face.

“Please,” Illya said roughly, _begged_ , voice almost unrecognisable even to himself, and understanding and comprehension dawned in Solo’s face.

“Of course,” Solo said quietly, and then he was moving, and before Illya could think too much he was face-down on the bed, hands clutching the headboard, shirt and undershirt off, and he felt the first slice of pain on his back.

Solo was using their modified fountain pen, the one they’d got in Spain, the one that they’d discussed awkwardly and stiltedly in a café in Morocco, the one that Solo would use without negotiation, when Illya _needed_ , needed without the words to ask. They’d drained the ink and Solo had sharpened the nib and it _stung,_ bright and painful, but Solo knew exactly how much pressure to apply to cause pain but not break the skin.

Later, Solo would hold Illya close and cook him dinner and Illya would let himself be taken care of, but for now, there was the sharp agony on his back and the blissful quiet of his mind, the little girl’s sombre, trusting face disappearing from his head as he sank into the peace and the pain of Solo’s movements.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone's doing alright!
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/holIyshort) \- come and say hi!


End file.
